


Karaoke, Sport of Kings

by lamardeuse



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bradley takes a little while to get it. As usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke, Sport of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is not real.
> 
> A/N: Notes with links are listed at the end of the story. Takes place in November, 2009, and references some public events and interviews released during that time. While you don't have to be up on all of those to enjoy this, it might be a good idea to watch Bradley's "A Night Less Ordinary" interview if you haven't already. See it [here](http://anightlessordinary.org.uk/video/view/bradley-james-talks-about-night-less-ordinary/).
> 
> Thanks: To rheanna27 and miasnape for awesome beta skills, Britpicking help, and Belfast knowledge. Any remaining errors are mine.

It was a Thursday when Bradley discovered that Colin didn't need him any more.

This would not in itself be remarkable – it being a Thursday, that is – but it was also a Thursday in which he happened to be stood on a stage in front of several thousand people, belting out the words to yet another ridiculous spell cooked up by whoever the hell Shine hired to write Old English gibberish for them.

He'd had it all planned out – Colin was to introduce the spell to the crowd, probably mumbling his way through it as usual and derailing the momentum that the rest of them had so carefully built up. He'd manage a little gentle mocking, then do his bit to whip the crowd back into a frenzy. That was the theory, and Bradley felt it to be a sound one.

Only that wasn't exactly how it worked in practice, because when they handed Colin the microphone, he bellowed out a _hello_ that shook the stage. Bradley saw Katie and Angel turn their heads toward him – alright, it was nice to know he wasn't the only one who was surprised – and then he proceeded to watch in stunned silence as Colin worked the crowd like a master impresario, his eyes shining and his gestures animated. The throng responded with enthusiasm, cheering and waving, and Colin grinned even more widely. Bradley couldn't look away, stunned into silence by the transformation.

In the nick of time, Bradley recovered sufficiently to take over one of the microphones and deliver his bit, but his heart wasn't in it. He glanced over at Colin, who was eyeing him in a manner he thought was frankly disapproving, and got a sarcastic "Thanks" for his trouble. After he handed back the mike, it briefly occurred to him that his presence here was entirely unnecessary.

Over the last year and more of giving interviews and making appearances, he'd had to carry the burden of the interactions, since Colin was congenitally shy and usually only answered a question when prodded with a mild electrical shock. It had gotten so that _I think I speak for both of us_ had become part of Bradley's regular vocabulary. The only other person he knew who used that phrase was his Great-Uncle Frank, and he couldn't help but notice that his Great-Aunt Connie looked daggers at him whenever he said it. Nevertheless, he couldn't seem to expunge it from his vocabulary, and Colin wasn't bothered by it.

At least it didn't _seem_ to bother him, but then Colin was so bloody polite all the time that it occurred to Bradley he might not ever know if it did. He thought back to their trip through Wales a couple of weeks ago, and wondered if he'd said it in the footage they'd shot for the special. Worse, had he unintentionally hogged the spotlight? Of course they'd edit it to give Colin more screen time, as he deserved.

It was just that – there was something about Colin that made you want to protect him. It was a little disturbing if you looked at it too closely, and even more disturbing to think that instinct might have been misinterpreted.

By the time the fireworks started, Bradley had convinced himself Colin's uncharacteristic outspokenness tonight was an aberration, brought on by the performance aspect of the evening. This wasn't like a chat show or an Expo appearance, where you sat politely answering the same bloody boring questions over and over again; it was akin to theatre, and Colin was decidedly uninhibited on stage. Underneath was the same old shy, retiring Colin, and Bradley would prove it.

Even over the _pop-pop_ of the fireworks, Bradley could hear voices calling their names. He turned and scanned the crowd, and soon found the perfect thing: a knot of sex-mad teenaged girls all screaming for Colin. Two of them were carrying a huge hand-painted sign which read, _COLIN COME BACK TO OUR CASTLE_.

_Brilliant_, Bradley thought, rubbing his half-frozen hands together in glee. He sidled up to Colin, whose face was still eagerly upturned toward the last of the fireworks, and leaned in close so that he could be heard. "Hey, Col," he said, "your adoring public awaits."

Colin turned his head toward him, and Bradley startled as he realised just how close their faces were. Bradley pointed at the girls who, sensing they'd been noticed, screamed even more loudly and waved at them. Bradley suppressed a grin; Colin _hated_ it when they screamed.

But Colin only shrugged and said, "That's for you, not me."

Bradley shook his head. "Look again, mate. They've got a sign."

Colin frowned and peered at the crowd. _Any moment now_, Bradley thought, waiting for the look of horror to pass over Colin's face.

And then Colin broke out in a huge grin. "That's totally mad," he said. "I love it."

Bradley blinked at him. "Erm. What?"

"I should go over and say hello, see just what kind of castle they've got," Colin said, leaning in to be heard, and Bradley could feel the hot puff of Colin's breath on his ear. And then Colin pulled back and winked at him before heading off toward the now nearly apopleptic girls.

"I – you," Bradley spluttered, to no one in particular. The last of the fireworks died away, leaving a roaring sound in his ears.

"Oi," Tony elbowed him, bringing him back to reality. "Time to sign a few autographs, my lad."

"Right, yeah," Bradley managed, turning toward the barricade and the waiting throngs. He caught a last glimpse of Colin holding up a mobile to take a picture of himself and a clearly ecstatic girl with far too much mascara. Colin's grin was wide and sincere and not at all strained, and as the flash went off, Bradley felt something in him lurch unpleasantly.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Tony hopped in his car and headed home after the event, but the rest of them ended up in Angel's hotel room, drinking and eating truly atrocious room service curry.

"That was – odd." Katie said.

"Yeah," Angel said. "Following Barney the dinosaur was definitely odd."

"D'you suppose we're going to be opening shopping centres when we're forty?" Bradley asked. "Like in _Galaxy Quest_?"

"Like in what?" Angel asked.

"You know, the one with Alan Rickman wearing the alien head," Colin said, taking another swig of his Harp.

Katie pointed at him. "Yes! I loved that movie!" Her smile faded slowly. "Oh God. Now that you mention it, that could be us, couldn't it?"

Colin snickered. "Bradley's the one always managing to get his shirt off."

"Lovely," Bradley muttered. "I've always secretly yearned to be Captain Kirk."

"I suppose that would make Colin Spock," said Angel, pouring herself another Coke and rum, if the less prevalent ingredient was to be listed first.

"There are people who say Spock and Kirk were shagging," Katie blurted with inebriated enthusiasm. "My mum found stories on the Internet!"

"Your mum spends too bloody much time sat in front of her computer," Angel muttered. "And there are stories about everyone on the Internet. There's probably one out there where Gordon Brown shags the Queen's favourite corgi."

There was a heavy silence following this statement.

"You know, after that, opening a shopping centre doesn't sound so bad," Colin said conversationally.

"Count me in," Bradley said brightly. They all looked at one another, then doubled over laughing at exactly the same moment.

_God_, Bradley thought, as he struggled to breathe, _I love you nutters_.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

"Is it true, then?" Bradley asked.

Colin dropped his head back onto the pillows and peered up at Bradley. They were now in Colin's room eating the obscenely large bag of crisps Bradley had bought earlier at the Sainsbury's near the hotel, because both of them were too drunk to sleep yet and Bradley had a theory that the salt and fat in the crisps helped absorb alcohol, in the same way a greasy hangover breakfast made you feel better.

He had a lot of theories, he realised, and quite a few of them seemed to be utter shit.

At any rate, Colin wasn't complaining, having torn into the crisps with as much gusto as Bradley. There were six crumbs around the corners of his mouth – Bradley had counted them – and he thought about telling Colin about them, but then Colin would lick them off and Bradley was afraid that being so close to Colin's tongue could be very dangerous.

There was a scene in the second troll episode where Merlin licked some disgusting substance off his finger in extreme close-up. Bradley had no idea why the director had felt the need to fill the frame with Merlin's tongue, but the episode had aired less that two weeks ago and he had now replayed the scene on his laptop one hundred and thirty six times. He refused to consider what this might mean.

"Is what true?" Colin asked. "You mean about the Prime Minister and the Queen's corgi?"

Bradley pondered that for a moment, trying to remember why he'd asked the question and coming up completely blank. "No, I meant – I don't remember what I meant." There were actually seven crumbs around Colin's mouth; how had he missed counting the seventh one?

Colin narrowed his eyes in that way which meant _I find you odd but strangely amusing_ – or at least so Bradley hoped. His gaze dipped a little, and Bradley realised Colin was looking at his mouth too, and a strange warmth curled in his belly that had nothing to do with an excess of gin.

And then Colin's hand reached up and tugged at Bradley's chin whiskers. "Oi!" Bradley exclaimed, pulling back. "Those are attached, Morgan!"

"Sorry, it's only that they're starting to take on a life of their own," Colin said. "I was worried they might leap off your face and attack without provocation."

"It's not that I'm going for a _look_ or anything," Bradley said, stung. "I just quit shaving, that's all."

"Yes, well, if you quit _grooming_ as well, you're going to look like the wild man of the forest pretty soon. It's a shame to cover up all that beauty with untamed fuzz."

"S'a bit more than fuzz," Bradley muttered, and no, he was not the least bit resentful that Colin was able to grow a full beard, while Bradley couldn't grow anything properly beardlike on his cheeks past his jaw line.

And then it struck him that Colin had just called him beautiful. Unfortunately, after ingesting so much alcohol it was quite difficult for him to contemplate what that could possibly mean.

While he was still trying to work it out, Colin ran a knuckle over Bradley's cheek, and Bradley suddenly forgot how to breathe.

"This bit's fairly fuzzy," Colin murmured, his gaze unfocused. His mouth looked incredibly soft this close up, Bradley noted. He leaned in, pulled down as if by some mysterious force.

Abruptly Bradley stiffened and jerked back, the realisation striking him like a blow across the face. Christ, he'd almost – he'd been about to –

Colin sagged back onto the bed. "Sorry," Colin murmured, passing a hand over his face. "I didn't mean it to sound like a criticism. After all, it's not as though I've a right to tell you how to grow a beard." He sounded almost resentful, which Bradley's sluggish brain found bizarre, to say the least, if only because he'd never have thought it was in Colin to resent anything.

"I think it makes me look roguish," Bradley said, in a desperate attempt to diffuse the weird tension in the room; he'd honestly never had any thought of the kind. He looked down at Colin to find him staring up at him with something like fondness – well, his expression resembled fondness in the way that a nuclear blast resembled a Christmas cracker. Bradley's heart started beating triple-time and his palms broke out in a sweat. It was either panic or a stroke.

"It does, at that," Colin said softly, and Christ, Bradley could feel everything between them shifting and changing, and he was just coherent enough to know that pissed half out of their skulls was the most disastrous time to be considering changing anything.

"Well," he said crisply, or as crisply as he could manage, "I'd better let you get some rest, yeah? You've got an early train in the morning back to Scotland."

Colin blinked at him, the smile on his face fading slowly as Bradley sat up. "Erm, sure," Colin said. "I guess – sure."

Bradley couldn't look at him again, because if he saw that hurt puppy-dog look on Colin's face – the one Merlin got whenever Arthur was a complete prick – he knew he'd throw caution to the wind and end up doing something they'd both regret come morning. Instead, he swung his legs over the bed and stood, feeling the world wobble slightly as he rose. "We'll be seeing one another soon enough, right? The BAFTA thing's not far off."

Colin didn't answer, and Bradley's gut twisted. Resolve weakening, he finally looked down and saw that Colin's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and steady. Bradley wondered briefly if he was faking it, then decided it didn't matter one way or the other.

And then he suddenly remembered the question he'd meant to ask earlier.

_Is it true that you don't need me any more?_

Just as well he hadn't asked it, Bradley thought as he tore his gaze away from Colin and headed for the door. Something told him he wouldn't have liked the answer.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

In the days leading up to the BAFTA event, Bradley moped around his London flat, made a halfhearted and unsuccessful attempt to put a dent in his Christmas shopping, and went home to visit his mum. It was Stephanie's birthday at the weekend, so he left for Devon on Friday and slept in his old room. The walls were covered in football posters and other rubbish from his childhood (dear God, the Spice Girls), and while this fact had never bothered him before, for some reason it made him feel out of sorts this time round.

On Saturday he sat in front of the telly with his mum and sister and watched episode eight, which he was quite proud of. He truly thought it was his best work to date, and his mum seemed to agree, because there were tears in her eyes in the scene with Igraine, and again in the fight scene with Tony.

His mum wasn't a crier; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her cry. He didn't know whether to be horrified or take it as a compliment.

After it was over, Stephanie said warmly, "Well done, Bradders."

His mum blinked back her tears and said in a tight voice, "Yes, that was lovely, Bradley. Well, I'd best be seeing to the roast." She rose and headed off to the kitchen at a brisk pace.

Stephanie watched her go, then turned back to Bradley. "You made her cry, you git," she said, but there was no real censure in her tone.

Bradley buried his face in his hands. "I know, God. I'm trying not to think about it."

"Don't worry," his sister said, poking with him with an elbow. "She'll go blow her nose where we can't see her, and then she'll be fine."

Bradley flicked a glance at her from between his fingers. "You really thought my performance was good?"

Stephanie cocked her head at him. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. You're not just a pretty face, you know." She paused, then tugged on his beard the same way Colin had. "Though you're not terribly pretty any more."

"I'm just taking a break from shaving, Jesus Christ!" Bradley exclaimed, springing to his feet. Which of course was the moment his mother chose to emerge from the kitchen with a stack of plates, napkins and cutlery.

"Language, Bradley," she said. "You're not a spoiled movie star yet, you know. Now please set the table for us, there's a good boy."

As she disappeared into the kitchen again, Stephanie grasped his hand and squeezed it. "Hey," she said, the word a question.

Bradley looked down at her, then returned the pressure. "Sorry."

"If you want to talk," she began.

Bradley smiled and shook his head. "I'd have to know what the bloody hell was going on with me to talk about it," he murmured. "But I appreciate the offer."

Stephanie rose, using Bradley's hand in hers to pull her up. "What are you doing?" Bradley demanded.

"Helping you set the table," she answered, frowning.

"Don't you dare. You're the birthday girl and are to be pampered. Besides, it keeps me humble," he added.

Stephanie eyed him closely, and Bradley felt his cheeks heat. "Thanks," she said softly. Bradley smiled his own gratitude, then released her hand with a final squeeze.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

That night, Bradley took down every one of his old posters, carefully rolling them up together as though he were observing some bizarre ritual. When the walls were as bare as those of his hotel room in France, he collapsed into bed and slept like a baby.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

When Colin first left for shooting in Mull right after Merlin wrapped in October, he'd texted Bradley at least twice daily. Mostly it was silly chatter, like _the weather here is utter shite_ or _vegetables in scotland are boiled until every last vitamin has been leached out of them. im going to die of scurvy._

To which Bradley had replied, _so not much different from norn iron then_, and Colin had texted back a lovely expletive with a helpful suggestion. They went back and forth like that, much the way they had on set for the past eight months.

When Colin went back to filming after their adventure in Wales, the texting had dropped down to once every other day or so. Bradley had just assumed that his schedule was busier, and tried to tell himself he didn't miss hearing from Colin all the bloody time.

Colin hadn't texted him once since Cardiff.

Bradley was beginning to think he was missing something.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

In the morning, Bradley had the perfect solution. He needed a holiday: a real, honest-to-god, get-out-of-the-sodding-country holiday. He thought about Cyprus or Greece, but ruled them both out: he'd been to both places before, and neither seemed adventurous enough. Nothing on the Continent did, really.

And then it struck him: Miami. He'd fly to Miami and watch the Dolphins play. It was perfectly mad, and therefore utterly brilliant. Grinning, he fired up his laptop before going down to breakfast and looked over plane fares and the Dolphins' game schedules.

That was exactly what he needed. A change of pace, a chance to clear his head and sort out what was bothering him. Of course, some warm sun and beaches full of gorgeous bikini-clad women wouldn't hurt, either. He could even go to that huge swamp they had – what was it called? He'd always wanted to see an alligator.

He descended the stairs humming happily to himself, to find Steph and his mum in the midst of cooking breakfast. Or, to be more precise, his mum was cooking breakfast, and his sister was sitting at the kitchen table with her head nearly in her cup of tea.

"Bad night?" Bradley asked.

Stephanie groaned. "I'm old."

"Don't be silly. You're twenty-nine," Bradley said, sitting down across from her and patting her on the arm consolingly. "_Next_ year you'll be old."

Stephanie raised her head to glare at him. "Bugger off," she snapped.

Bradley's mum made a disapproving noise. To this day, Bradley was unable to characterize or reproduce it; it was unique to her and her alone.

Stephanie sighed. "Your children are all grown up, Mother, and they are profane. It's alright, you know; Queen Victoria's been dead a long time."

"So I've decided to go on holiday!" Bradley chirped, pasting on his best grin. "You'll never guess where."

"Corfu," Stephanie said.

"No."

"Ibiza."

"No."

"Ulan Bator?"

Bradley rolled his eyes. "Miami."

Stephanie's eyebrows shot up. "You're going to America."

"That's where Miami is, yes," Bradley said patiently. Bradley's mum plunked several rounds of toast in front of them, and they murmured their thanks.

"That's in Florida, isn't it, Bradley?" his mum asked.

"Yep." Bradley scooped raspberry jam onto his toast and spread it thickly.

"Are they still shooting tourists there, then?" Stephanie asked, mouth half full.

Bradley cringed at the sound of his mother's gasp. He looked up reluctantly to see her staring at both of them, her face drained of all colour.

"On second thought," Bradley said with false cheer, all hope of adventure vanishing before his eyes, "I can never get enough of Greece."

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley finally decided to get in touch with Colin on Thursday.

_so how's the weather up there?_ he typed, then erased it. _r u getting enough vegetables?_ was also erased, along with _r u not speaking to me anymore?_ and _did i fuck it all up?_

He was beginning to despair of ever finding his balls again when the mobile rang in his hands. "Gah!" Bradley shouted, and it flew from his fingers and landed on the floor with a crash. Picking it up gingerly, he inspected it for signs of damage – miraculously, there appeared to be none – and thumbed the talk button.

"Hullo?"

"Bradley, it's Julian. How are you?"

Bradley's heart kicked into overdrive. "Quite well. Unless you're about to tell me we've been cancelled, in which case I shall fling myself out the window of my flat."

"You're on the second floor."

"I didn't say it was anything to _die_ over," Bradley said.

"Well, there'll be no need for flinging, no matter the height," Julian said. "We just got the go for a third series."

"Pardon me while I whoop for joy," Bradley said, and promptly did just that.

"Ouch."

"Sorry, should have covered the speaker. Have you rung Colin?"

"Not yet. His mobile connection's a bit spotty up there, so I was going to ring him tonight at the hotel."

"Oh, well, I was about to ring him, so if I get a hold of him I'll let him know."

"Bradley."

"What?"

"Don't mess him about, alright?"

"Would I do that?"

There was a pointed silence on the other end of the line. "Just remember I'm calling him tonight to tell him the truth."

"Why does everyone always assume the worst of me?" Bradley asked plaintively, following up the question with a dramatic sigh.

"I can't imagine," Julian drawled. "I'll see you Saturday. Andreas wants you there by noon to practice the sword fighting routine."

"Right, yeah, will do," Bradley said. "And Julian – thank you. For – I don't know, everything. My whole bloody life, really."

"You're welcome," Julian said warmly. "You know, Johnny and I were talking the other day, and we said we couldn't imagine anyone else as our Arthur. You've been marvelous – we couldn't be more pleased with your work."

Bradley ducked his head and felt his cheeks heat at the unexpected compliment. He tried to thank him, but no words made it past his throat.

"See you Saturday," Julian said again, and Bradley croaked out a similar response before he rang off.

At the time, Bradley couldn't have said what made him do it, but somewhere in the twenty minutes between the excited text to Colin (_just heard from julian ring me soonest_) and the "You're the Voice" ringtone that heralded every call from him, Bradley decided to be just the arsehole Julian expected him to be. If he had been more introspective, he might have recognised it as a desperate attempt to reestablish them on an easier, more familiar footing, rather than the crumbling precipice that their relationship had occupied of late. But this was only something that occurred to him several hours later, when he was lying awake at three in the morning and wondering how anyone could possibly be that fucking stupid.

"Oh my God, tell me," Colin said breathlessly. Bradley paused for a moment, stunned by the wave of utter and complete _longing_ that washed over him. He'd only seen Colin a week ago, but judging from his reaction to just the sound of his voice, it felt like they'd been apart a year. Fuck, thought Bradley, what the hell was happening to him?

"You're not talking," Colin said. "What does that mean? That can't be good."

"Colin, mate," Bradley said, voice low. "Are you sitting down?"

"No, they – they didn't." Colin sounded devastated, and for a moment, Bradley felt a pang of conscience. Only for a moment, however. After all, it wasn't as though he'd let it go on for more than a minute or so. The lad was young; his heart could stand the strain.

"Don't blame Johnny and Julian," Bradley said quickly. "It was cutbacks at the Beeb. They did everything they could – offered to cut the budget, cut our salaries, they even said they'd make the monsters out of cardboard and fabric if it would help – but they couldn't convince them."

"That's absolute _rubbish_," Colin said, and for a moment Bradley worried he'd been found out. "I mean, this show makes tons of dosh for them. It's licensed around the world, for fuck's sake."

Bradley flinched; Colin rarely swore like that, with an undercurrent of anger. In fact, Bradley didn't think he'd ever heard him this angry. "Look, Colin, I – I'm just pulling your leg, alright? They've ordered a third series."

"They – what? They have?" Colin's voice was small, disbelieving. "Then – what were you –"

Bradley rubbed a hand over his face, savagely. "I don't – I was just being a prick, alright? S'what I do."

There was such a long pause on the other end that Bradley was afraid the connection had been severed. "Yeah, it is what you do, isn't it?" Colin finally said wearily.

Bradley's gut churned. "Colin, look, I – "

"They're calling me to set up the next shot," Colin said, and Bradley knew with a sickening certainty that he was lying.

"Col, please –"

"I have to go," Colin said, and then Bradley truly was listening to dead air.

"See you Saturday," Bradley said to the mobile, right before he hurled it across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered.

Oh, Christ, he thought, burying his face in his hands. He was never going to tell his mum about that.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

That night, Katie e-mailed him: _My mum found this! Why didn't you gits tell me?_ Below that was a link for the Night Less Ordinary site. Bradley sat in front of his laptop eating takeaway curry and chips with a mechanical efficiency and decided to follow the link before reading the rest of the e-mail, which from the looks of it was _Colin this_ and _Colin that_ all over the sodding place. He watched his interview first, because he was a masochist, and hated nearly all of it. The worst, though, was finding out they'd left the Bowie impersonation in. Seeing it on screen after the conversation earlier made him feel as though he'd betrayed Colin again, because that had been something just between them – Colin was the only one of the cast who knew all about his unholy love for _Labyrinth_, who always laughed at every one of his terrible impressions – and now he'd told the whole fucking Internet about it, including Katie's mum. Marvelous.

He was going to see Colin in less than two days, and instead of looking forward to it, as he should have been doing, he was dreading it more than he'd dreaded sitting exams in his English Literature Between the Wars course.

Bloody hell, he was going to have to figure out a way to fix this.

Before clicking on the link to Colin's interview – he needed to work up to that – he flipped back to the rest of Katie's e-mail. _I suppose you heard about Series Three – isn't it amazing? I can put the deposit on that flat I was talking about – I didn't want to risk it before that._

Colin must be pretty excited about it too. He told you about helping out his parents?

Bradley blinked. No, Colin in fact had not told him anything of the sort.

_Well, they wanted to have his grandmother move in with them, because she's not really able to live on her own any longer. Only his gran isn't so good with stairs, and they were going to either have to renovate the house – which they really couldn't afford – or sell the house and get one more suitable, which they hated to do, because everyone loves that house and it's been in his dad's family for ages. So Colin's been trying to get them to take his money for months, but they kept refusing. He finally got them to agree to let him help if the show was renewed, because he argued he'd have more money than he knew what to do with, and they'd only be doing him a favour. Isn't that just like Colin? What a sweetheart. I bet he's over the moon today._

Bradley leaned forward until his forehead was resting gently against the keyboard. He wondered if that leaping out the window option was still on offer. Better yet, maybe he could just let Andreas run him through on Saturday. Or allow a group of fans to take him home and use his body until there was nothing left but bone and gristle. Really, the possibilities were endless.

Bradley brought up Colin's interview on the ANLO site, but he couldn't bring himself to click play. After a few minutes of the most abject self-pity he'd ever experienced, he navigated away from the site as a new idea struck him.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley's mum was still driving the same car that both he and Stephanie had learned to drive in, a battered old 1995 Escort that was mostly held together with his mum's indomitable strength of will. He didn't know what sort of car she'd like, so he spent three hours surfing car sites, then IMed Stephanie with links to photos of the most likely candidates, including a Mazda 3 MPS, which was more his idea of a car; he threw it in the mix just to be perverse. _which one for mum?_

Stephanie's reply came through a moment later: _youre buying mum a car? r u mental?_

Bradley rolled his eyes. _employed for another year. pots of money. will be buying u a pony after i get this sorted. now come on and be useful._

Stephanie responded: _i think shed prefer the mazda. do u think u can get a red one like that?_

Bradley stared at the screen, gobsmacked. The Escort was essentially devoid of character; the thought that she might actually want an exciting vehicle was akin to thinking she might be a dominatrix in her spare time. _for mum?_ he asked, accompanied by a smiley face with a rounded 'o' mouth of abject horror.

Stephanie swiftly parried with its raspberry-blowing cousin. _shes always wanted a sporty car. didn't u know that?_

Bradley sighed. _i dont know much of anything today, apparently. thanks 4 the info._

There was a pause, then: _are we talking yet?_

_not yet_, Bradley answered, _but youll be the first one i call when i have a nervous collapse._

_youre totally mad and a darling. i love you. and shes proud of u, shes just crap at showing it. u know that right?_

Bradley's throat tightened. _yeah, i know. youre very wise these days, must come from being an old tart._

_oh, fuck off. bye for now. ill be watching for the pony._

And then she was gone. Bradley smiled for the first time in what felt like days, then rubbed his eyes and closed the laptop.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

"He's here," the assistant whispered in his ear, and suddenly the stage and the couple of hundred people in the audience all faded away, leaving behind only the need to talk to Colin _now_.

Bradley heard the blood rushing in his ears as he thanked her and leaned in to Katie. "Be back in two minutes," he said, and she nodded. As he left the theatre, he headed toward the backstage area where he and Andreas had spent the afternoon rehearsing the routine, figuring they'd have him waiting there, but as he turned into the back hallway, he noticed Colin disappearing into the loo.

Bradley shook his hands out and rolled his shoulders, the way he did before filming a particularly difficult fight scene. _You can do this_, he told himself. Unfortunately, himself knew that to be utter bollocks as much as he did.

He walked in just as Colin was zipping up, which was a small mercy, at least. Bradley imagined there would be nothing more mortifying than trying to have a heart to heart when someone's wedding tackle was hanging out of their trousers. Colin looked up as he entered, and Bradley held his breath, watching Colin's face for any sign of emotion.

It wasn't the utter disaster he'd been dreading: Colin's expression was guarded, certainly, but it wasn't completely closed off. "Hey," he said, lifting his chin in a greeting. It was hardly jovial, but at least it was a greeting.

Bradley walked toward him, joining him at the sink where he was now washing up. "I'm sorry," he said simply, stopping close enough that he could catalogue every flicker of reaction on Colin's face, but far enough away that Colin had his space. "I fucked up, and I know I did. It was a rotten thing to do."

Colin shook his head as he looked down at his hands. "It wasn't that bad," he murmured. "It was only that I'd worked myself into a panic about the news, and I was half convinced they were going to cancel us. I should have known you were lying from the start otherwise."

"Yeah, you did seem rather dim about that, even for you," Bradley said, then winced. _Probably a little too soon to pick right up with the teasing banter_, he told himself sternly.

But Colin only chuckled at that. "Cheers, man," he said, and when Bradley dared to look up at him, he was smiling at him fondly. A wave of relief washed over him, and his knees may have gone a bit weak.

Taking a deep breath, he clapped a hand on Colin's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "I'm really glad we're going to be working together another year," he said, the words rehearsed but filled with sincerity. He'd never meant anything more, he thought, and when Colin's eyes crinkled in pleasure, he felt their connection flare back to life after what felt like years of getting it wrong.

"Yeah, me too," Colin said, ducking his head and smiling crookedly. "I've kind of got used to you. Wouldn't know what to do without you – erm. Aggravating me."

Bradley realised his hand was still on Colin's shoulder, and he thought it would probably be a good idea to let him go now. He told his fingers to uncurl, but they stubbornly refused to obey him.

He watched, helpless, as Colin turned toward him slowly, drawing closer until they were only inches apart. "Bradley," he murmured. Bradley swallowed, heart pounding; his fingers flexed on Colin's shoulder.

"Bradley?" There was a rap on the bathroom door, and then the creaking of the door. "Bradley, are you in here?" It was the assistant from the Barbican; Bradley stepped back, letting go of Colin's shoulder as though it were on fire.

"Yes, sorry, I'll be out in a moment," he called, and the door flapped shut. He risked a glance at Colin, who had a frozen and completely artificial smile stuck to his face.

Bradley rubbed at the back of his neck. "Our adoring public awaits," he sighed.

"Yeah," Colin said, still with that unnatural smile. "I'll see you out there in a couple of minutes, alright?"

Bradley nodded, no longer trusting his voice, and turned on his heel before he did something stupid like snog Colin silly in the middle of the loo where anyone could walk in on them.

Which, actually, was what he'd been about to do no more than a minute ago. But that was beside the point.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Shockingly, the rest of the afternoon wasn't a complete disaster. Colin made his entrance and did his bit with the interviewer, Bradley actually remembered what the hell he was supposed to do in his fight with Andreas, Katie acquitted herself well in her swordfighting sequence, and the three of them arsed around together on the stage when they should have been paying attention. It was all wonderfully familiar and Bradley should have found it comforting, but instead there was a persistent drumbeat of _Colin Colin Colin_ pounding through his veins and making his palms itch. It didn't help that Colin looked at him once or twice as though he was a particularly mouthwatering steak dinner, or whatever the equivalent might be for a vegetarian. Something with really expensive tofu flown straight from Japan, no doubt.

And then, miraculously, the appearance was over, the last autograph signed, the last fan gone, and the three of them were donning their coats and preparing to leave. Bradley was hoping Katie would bugger off so that he could talk to Colin alone, but that wasn't to be.

"Well, d'you fancy going out for a pint?" she asked. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Bradley looked at Colin, raising his eyebrows in a way that he hoped meant _please say no so I can take you back to mine and touch you in inappropriate ways_, and bless him if Colin didn't turn to Katie and shake his head sadly.

"I'm sorry, Katie, but I've got to catch a flight to Belfast in –" he checked his watch "– God, two hours. I'm only going to have time to eat some horrible takeaway at the airport."

"Oh, that's a shame," she cooed. "Is anything wrong at home?"

"No, no," Colin said. "It's only that Neil's home for a few days, and Mum wants us all together now, since he won't be able to make it back for Christmas. We're going to do it all up like the holiday before he leaves, with the tree and presents and everything." Bradley's head snapped up at that; the story was getting a bit elaborate, but then Colin always loved a good story.

"That's too bad," Katie said, then waved a hand. "I mean too bad he won't be with you at Christmas, not that you're going to get to see him." She gave him a brief hug, then released him. "Have fun, and maybe I'll see you when you're back in town?"

"Yeah, for sure. I'll ring you round the first of the month," he said.

Katie said her goodbyes, giving Bradley a hug as well, and then they were finally, finally alone. Colin hesitated, half-turned toward the door, and then finally spun back and said, "Well. I'd best be off, then."

Bradley blinked. "What? Where are you going?"

"To Heathrow. Didn't you hear me talking to Katie just now?"

"Yes, but I thought that –" Bradley flapped his arm, stupidly; he had no idea what the gesture was supposed to convey. _I thought we were finally on the same page_, he thought miserably, but it suddenly hit him that perhaps they weren't on the same page at all, that perhaps all of this – the smiles, the laughter, the way Colin looked at him – all of that was just Colin being a good mate. He'd never had a mate like Colin, but then all of his mates before this had been English; maybe this was the way things worked in Ireland between straight blokes.

"Thought what?" Colin asked. He was standing closer now, and Bradley clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching for him.

"Nothing," Bradley said. "Listen, have a great trip and I'll see you week after next for the O'Grady show, right?"

Colin stared at him for a moment, searching his face. Finally, he nodded and stepped back. "Yeah. Thanks. See you," he muttered, and then he was gone.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

It took Bradley until Wednesday to figure it out.

To be fair, he was a little preoccupied with feeling sorry for himself on Sunday, and then Monday and Tuesday were taken up with his elaborate scheme involving the new car for his mum. He arranged to take her out for lunch Wednesday, then drove the red Mazda down to Torbay to pick her up. It handled like a wet dream, absolutely perfectly tuned, and as he passed car after car on the M4, he found himself getting more and more apprehensive. This was definitely not his mum's kind of ride; he should have gone with the more sedate Renault or the practical Volkswagen. She'd feel ridiculous driving it to the market, and would probably tell him so when he told her he'd bought it for her. Stephanie was an idiot; why had he listened to her?

He had himself so convinced she'd hate it that it was rather a shock when she stopped cold upon seeing the car, then stared at it as though she might like to marry it. Bradley instantly took back every unkind thought he'd had about his sister in the last hour and a half.

"Is that a new car?" she asked, coming closer.

Bradley nodded. "Brand new. Just bought it last night."

"It's lovely," she murmured, her hand running over the bright metallic paint, and Bradley bit his tongue to keep from grinning.

"Why don't you drive it?" he suggested. Her head snapped up, and he pressed the key into her hand.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right," she said, as though she were doing him a favour, but Bradley could see the gleam in her eye.

He waited to see if they'd roar away from the kerb, but to his dismay she still kept precisely three miles per hour under the limit, just as she always had.

"Mum," Bradley said patiently, "believe me, this car can handle thirty without any trouble."

His mum frowned, but Bradley felt the car lurch as she accelerated.

"You could even do thirty-five."

"No, darling," she said patiently. "I'm not going to break the speed limit in your new car."

"Mmm, well, the thing is," Bradley answered, finally letting the grin run free, "it's not my new car. It's your new car."

The car swerved as his mother turned her head to boggle at him; she recovered quickly, but Bradley kept a steadying hand on the dash for a few extra seconds just to be sure. "You – what did you say?" she demanded.

"I'd take out the registration and show it to you, but I'd like you to keep your eyes on the road. You'll just have to take my word for it."

"You – bought me a _car_?" his mother squealed. Bradley took a moment to ponder that: his mother, squealing. To his recollection, he had never heard his mother squeal, scream, or emit any high-pitched noise of any description. "Bradley, I can't –"

"You can, and you will," Bradley insisted. "I can afford to do this for you. Please let me."

His mother glanced at him. "This is – rather overwhelming." She swallowed, and Bradley was terrified she might cry again. "It's – marvelous. Thank you."

Bradley smiled. "You're welcome. Meanwhile, if you don't mind I'd like to take the Escort in exchange. I've always had a soft spot for that car."

"You can have the bloody thing," his mother said feelingly.

"Language, mother!" Bradley exclaimed, laughing. His mother darted a glance at him, then started laughing right along with him.

_First chance I get_, Bradley thought, _I'm buying Stephanie that pony._

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley returned to London that evening in a much better frame of mind than he'd been in when he'd left that morning, even though the mode of transport was considerably less stylish. The Escort couldn't manage more than fifty on the motorway – or rather, it could if he wanted it to shake apart – and there was an odd noise coming from the general direction of the boot that sounded suspiciously like farting. Not being an expert on cars, he wasn't sure what this meant, but he suspected it meant a couple of thousand quid if he wanted it to be truly driveable.

Or he could just strip off the plates and leave it by the side of the road. It was a toss-up, really.

Nevertheless, his spirits were still high when he rattled home to his flat, and after picking up some delicious Thai takeaway from down the street, he settled in to watch the most recent ep on the DVD Shine had sent him. He hadn't seen it yet, having been at the BAFTA event on Saturday, and then he'd avoided it, not having been in the mood to watch forty-five minutes of Colin being emotionally wrecked.

Those scenes had been tough to shoot for him, Bradley remembered. God knew Colin would never complain, and he truly relished the chance to sink his teeth into difficult material, but it had been pissing down rain the day they'd shot Freya's death scene at the lake, and Colin had returned to the hotel that night shivering and miserable. He would have retreated to his room to shiver and be miserable alone, but Bradley had dragged him next door to his and insisted they watch _Life of Brian_ while stuffing their faces with room service pastries.

"At least the French make great desserts," Colin said wistfully, mouth half-full of éclair. There was a smear of chocolate on his upper lip; Bradley considered telling him about it, then decided it was a lost cause, as there would doubtless be more chocolate before the night was through.

"Mmm," Bradley agreed. "Apart from the frightfully expensive fruit, the lack of milk and anything resembling decent meat-free cuisine, they're tops."

"Thought you were trying to cheer me up," Colin muttered.

Bradley turned his head. "This has really hit you hard, hasn't it?" he murmured. Colin had played emotional scenes before, but not quite to this degree or for this duration. Bradley had noticed the toll such scenes always took on Colin, though, how he was brittle and wrung out afterwards. It was a mystery to Bradley; he considered himself an actor, certainly, and he loved playing Arthur, but even when he was in the midst of a scene, he always felt it was a mask he was putting on, a layer superimposed over the reality underneath. Colin, by contrast, seemed to invite Merlin into the depths of his soul, and Bradley could see it was sometimes hard to exorcise him at the end of the day.

Colin shrugged. "You know how it is. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy discovers girl is a shapeshifting monster, boy loses girl, boy sets girl on fire." He chuckled, unconvincingly.

Bradley didn't laugh. "You do realise that's Merlin, not you."

"Right," Colin said, nodding, eyes glued to the television. "I'm Colin. My love life's even more pathetic than that."

"Okay, now you're depressing _me_," Bradley muttered, contemplating his own lack of any company other than his right hand.

"Sorry," Colin said, not sounding sorry at all.

"Let's just – watch the movie," Bradley huffed. "And eat your pastry, you're wasting away to nothing from lack of yummy vegetables."

"Yes, Mum," Colin said, but he crammed the rest of the eclair in his gob obediently.

Shaking himself to clear the memories, Bradley returned to the present where Colin was on the screen, portraying Merlin in the first flush of love. To Bradley, watching him like this seemed oddly intimate and intrusive, as though he were witnessing something he shouldn't. He told himself it was only because it would be embarrassing for Arthur, and then reminded himself he wasn't as Method as Colin.

Merlin was now telling Freya he wanted to leave Camelot with her, and Bradley felt a pang of something oddly like betrayal. _What about our destiny?_ he – Arthur would have asked. _You're just going to throw that away for a girl you don't know anything about? A girl who could be a murderous black panther with great bloody wings for all you know?_

And then Freya told him (lying, he could tell she was lying, but it wasn't cruelty; she wished it could be true) that there was nothing she'd like more than to have Col – Merlin run away with her, and Merlin paused, then – he fucking _lit up_, like she'd just handed him the moon and the stars, and Jesus Christ, Bradley knew that look, he _knew it_, because he'd seen it on Colin's face less than a month ago.

It had been the second day of the road trip through Wales. They were stopped at a cafe eating lunch while the cameraman was in the loo with some mysterious stomach ailment that was probably traceable to the five pints of Welsh stout he'd drunk last night at Mold's only decent pub and the producer was on her mobile to the Beeb, trying to figure out how much trouble she'd be in if two actors from their Saturday ratings leader pitched off a cliff in a Fiesta. Colin was turned round in his seat, watching her flap her free arm as she talked.

"Hey," Bradley said, making Colin turn back to him. "They're distracted. Now's the time to leg it."

Colin stared at him for a moment, then broke into a grin. "We'll never get away. She'll spot us."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Bradley sighed. "And even if she doesn't, the chip they implanted in my head when I signed the contract will lead them straight to us."

Colin laughed, then suddenly sobered. He appeared to find his roast vegetable pasta fascinating, poking at it with a desultory fork. Bradley held his breath for some mad reason, waiting for what Colin was gearing up to say. Whatever it was, it seemed important, and perhaps a little ominous.

"I, erm," Colin finally murmured, eyes still on his lunch, "I wish it was just us." He looked up at Bradley from under his eyelashes, and added, "I mean, no cameras, just us driving around."

Bradley let out the breath he'd been holding, relieved that's all it was. "Yeah, me too. We should do that, you know? Hire a car and go sightseeing, you and me."

Colin searched his face for a long moment, as though he were looking at Bradley for the first time. And then he lit up, in what Bradley now recognized as the smile of a man who'd just been told by the person he loved that they loved him right back.

A month ago, he'd agreed to go on a honeymoon with Colin Morgan and then failed to follow through. No wonder the poor bastard wasn't texting him any more.

"Shit," Bradley groaned, burying his head in his hands. "I am the thickest arsehole on the planet."

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The next few hours passed in a blur, and the next thing Bradley knew he was driving a hire car – another bloody Fiesta – away from Belfast City airport, following the signs that would lead him to the city centre. He was still somewhat dazed from the interaction with the bloke behind the counter – it had been like listening to Colin those first few days after they'd met, trying to sort out the vowel sounds and wondering how the hell he was going to work with someone who didn't even speak English. After nearly two years, Bradley had fancied himself fairly competent at understanding Northern Irish accents, but clearly he didn't know shit. And he had now deposited himself smack in the middle of a city where _everyone_ spoke like that.

The smart thing to do right now would be to turn the car round and fly back to the safety of London. If he remained, it would only be a matter of time before they spotted him as an English interloper, and by the day's end his flayed carcass would be lying by the roadside, a warning to other gormless would-be visitors to the Emerald Isle.

And of course, all this was to cover up the fact that he was shit scared Colin would reject him. Bradley sighed and flipped on the radio, where a woman's voice was talking rapidly in Gaelic. At least that's what it sounded like to him.

"Oh, God," he said aloud. "I've lost my fucking mind."

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Blessedly, the staff at the Malmaison Hotel were fluent in Clueless Englishman, and he checked in with ease. He'd found them on the Internet last night and had latched onto it like a man drowning. It had everything, from luxury services to a well-stocked bar to a restaurant that served ethically raised and locally sourced food (Colin might not be ecstatic that Bradley was a carnivore, but at least he'd know the steaks served at the Malmaison came from cows that died happy). The topper, however, was when he'd found the suites: the hotel had two, and one of them boasted a nine-foot bed and a purple pool table. He Googled for pictures and found one where a bloke had proposed to his girlfriend right in the suite. The decorations were bloody epic, he had to admit.

Mind you, while Bradley allowed as how romance was all well and good, he decided that heart-shaped balloons would probably be a little over the top in this case. This did not negate the fact that at eleven-thirty last night, he had determined that Operation Honeymoon, as he had now dubbed his madness, would not be complete unless he had this room in which to woo Colin. While he knew the chances of it being available on such short notice were near impossible – and in fact the website was showing it as occupied – he decided to ring them directly just in case.

"Why yes, sir," the concierge told him, "as it happens, we do have the Samson Room available through the weekend. There was a last minute cancellation not an hour ago – " the man's voice briefly faded as a heavenly choir sang Hallelujah " – take it you would like to book?"

Bradley dug in his back pocket for his wallet. "I most certainly would," he said, breathless and giddy and feeling the hand of Fate or the Great Dragon or whoever the fuck guiding him in this noble endeavour.

That had been over fifteen hours ago, and by this point exhaustion was allowing sharp jabs of reality to sneak in around the edges of Bradley's euphoria. The hotel lobby was posh enough, and the service was impeccable, but all of this would be for naught if Colin had already decided he wasn't worth the bother. His footsteps were leaden as he reached the door of the suite, and when the bellhop let him inside, he was more convinced than ever that he'd made a huge mistake.

"I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. James," the bellhop said, as Bradley walked into the room and stopped cold.

It was like – Bradley truly had no basis for comparison. Yes, he did: if Arthur were a modern-day figure, the spoiled prat son of a rich businessman, perhaps, this would be his idea of a bachelor flat. There was a huge plasma television, a roaring fire crackling in the hearth, an overstuffed leather couch and chairs, and of course the ridiculous pool table. It was completely mad, he realised: Colin would hate it, or at best, tolerate it with an indulgent smile, the one he used whenever Bradley was putting all his efforts into being especially annoying.

This was a disaster, Bradley thought, thanking the bellhop and pressing a fiver into his hand, an unmitigated bloody disaster; he must have been delirious last night. Sighing, he picked up his bag and shuffled to the bedroom. At least the mattress would probably be comfortable; he'd get a good night's rest and head back to England in the morning.

Bradley stopped again at the sight of the bed, because it was easily half the size of a football pitch, and the dramatic red and black sheets and duvet were like something out of a late Victorian whorehouse. Despite the utter tackiness of it, however, Bradley found himself lost in the mental image of the two of them sprawled out across it, rolling around in a delicious tangle of limbs.

Perhaps Colin could learn to like the room. Or at least the bed.

Bradley flopped down on the mattress, spreadeagled. His outstretched hands couldn't reach the edges.

This was either the most brilliant or the most idiotic idea he'd ever had. Too bad he had no idea which one it was.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley had always prided himself on being decisive, much like Arthur. He hadn't always made the best choices, but he hated being wishy-washy even more than he hated bollixing up. This time, though, he was paralysed by doubt, terrified of doing the wrong thing. And so he spent the rest of the afternoon working himself into a lather, changing his mind eighteen times in three hours. He could ring Colin – no, he hadn't exactly had much success communicating with Colin by telephone lately. He could show up at his house – but what if Colin was horrified by his obvious and vaguely creepy stalking? He could text him and find out when he was leaving home, then offer to hook up with him in Belfast for a day or two – and what if Colin said no, don't bother, I'll catch you in London? Bradley couldn't exactly say _well, I just happened to be in Northern Ireland for no good reason, and by the way, would you like to shag in my hideously melodramatic hotel suite? _

The upshot of all this dithering was that by seven he'd nearly worn a hole in the plush bedroom carpet, and he hadn't made any attempt to contact Colin at all. Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he called down to the restaurant to reserve a table, then jumped in the shower. After a quick and marginally satisfying wank, he emerged cleaner and slightly more clear-headed but no more decided as to what to do next.

Dinner was no doubt delicious, but it might as well have been cardboard for all Bradley knew; he ate mechanically, without pleasure. Afterward, he wandered out of the hotel into the crisp autumn night, exploring the surrounding streets using the map the hotel had provided. The cathedral district was an interesting mix of modern and historic buildings, pubs and churches, shops and public buildings. It wasn't as different to London as he'd been expecting, and he was soon feeling more at home than he'd thought he would. The accents of the passersby were achingly familiar to him now, and he half-turned a few times, thinking he'd heard one particular voice.

As he passed yet another pub, he decided to stop in for a drink; the air was just cool enough that his cheeks were beginning to feel numb. The exterior of the pub was nondescript, exactly like that of a dozen others he'd passed, but the inside was much more tasteful and well-appointed than he'd have guessed. While it was fairly crowded, Bradley managed to find a seat at the bar near the back and waved a hand to catch the barman's attention.

"Oh, my, that's rather lovely, isn't it?" a feminine voice trilled from a microphone.

A second woman chimed in, her tones deeper, more of a purr, "Yes, reminds me of a footballer I used to go with."

"You went with a footballer? What position did he play?"

"Oh, my darling, he was good at _all_ positions."

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd, and Bradley turned slowly on the stool to see who the performers were.

They were sitting on a couch about twenty feet away from him and directly behind him. They were, quite clearly, drag queens. And they were – or rather, had been – staring at his arse.

"Trudy," one of them said to the other, "he's even nicer from the front." She wasn't looking at his face. Bradley flushed as another wave of laughter followed this statement.

"Mmm, so he is," Trudy said, arching an eyebrow. "Sweetheart, come over here and let us get a closer look at you."

With only a moment's hesitation – what the hell, it wasn't as though the night could get worse – Bradley hopped off the stool and approached them. They grinned and moved apart, patting the centre of the couch in invitation.

"M'dear, you're a good sport," Trudy said as he sat down. "What are you drinking?"

"I was going to have a pint of bitter," Bradley told her.

"Sean, a pint of bitter for – "

"Bradley."

"– for Bradley, on the house." She extended her hand. "Trudy Scrumptious, at your service, and this is Lady Portia Diamante."

"Ladies," he said, taking each of their hands in turn and kissing the knuckles.

"Oooh, a real English gentleman! How do you like that, Portia?"

"I'm not complaining," Portia said, easing closer to him.

"Now hold on a moment, I saw him first," Trudy said.

"Don't worry," Bradley said, leaning close enough so that he could be heard through the mike, "there's enough here for both of you."

As the audience erupted in laughter, Bradley realised he was really starting to like Belfast.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley eventually discovered that he had stumbled in on Trudy and Portia's Karaoke Couch, the staple entertainment every Thursday night at Belfast's Union Street Pub. There was rather a lot of ribald humour and bad karaoke, and a large portion of both were perpetrated by him, especially after the third pint. By the time Trudy and Lady Portia wrapped up their act around midnight, Bradley had laughed more in a few hours than he had in a month.

"Thank you," he said to them, when they were sitting together in a back booth as he treated them to a drink, "you've no idea how much I needed this tonight."

"Oh, sweetheart, the feeling is mutual," Portia said, sipping her martini. "Truth be told, the act's been a little dead the last few weeks. You livened things up beautifully."

"Glad I could be of assistance."

Trudy eyed him speculatively. "And what would be your trouble, then? A little touch of 'heavy is the head that wears the crown', perhaps?"

Bradley frowned. "Oh, you – recognised me, then?" Not a single person had approached him all night, which was getting to be a little unusual. He'd just assumed the beard had rendered him invisible, or that Merlin wasn't as popular here as it was elsewhere in the UK.

Portia flapped a hand. "Half the bloody pub recognised you, love. It's just not in us to get all gooey and start asking for autographs."

"I'm liking Northern Ireland more and more," Bradley murmured.

"Is that what's the matter?" Portia asked. "You've been beaten down by the unending pressures of celebrity?"

Bradley barked a laugh. "Well, no. It hasn't exactly been that bad, to be honest, apart from the odd tiara and bottle of Jagermeister in the post."

"That was one of my last year's Christmas presents!" Portia exclaimed.

Trudy rolled her eyes. "Hush up, Portia. It's not always all about you." Leaning across the table, she placed her hand over Bradley's lightly. "I'm guessing your troubles are located more in the vicinity of the heart, am I right?"

Bradley shifted a little in his seat, his cheeks heating. He swallowed, then heard himself say, "More like letting my head confuse my heart." He chuckled. "Though that's never been a problem up to now."

"That's because it's never been this important before, has it?" Trudy asked softly.

Bradley blinked. "Yeah. I, erm, I think I fucked up, and I'm not sure how to fix it."

Trudy squeezed his hand one last time, then released him and leaned back in her seat. "Well, I'm assuming since you're here that the object of your affections is Irish –" Bradley nodded "–in which case I can tell you that there's a touch of the drama queen in even the most level-headed of us. And while that can be a huge pain in the arse, it also means that the grander the gesture, the more we love it – even if we won't admit it at the time because we don't want to play to the stereotype."

Portia turned to her. "That's a stunning insight into the national character, duck."

"Thank you, love," Trudy said.

Bradley leaned forward, earnest. "But what if you've made a grand gesture, but you're not sure if it's – well, silly?"

Portia smiled. "Pardon me, darling, but you haven't exactly been the picture of the tight-arsed Englishman tonight –"

"Well, not figuratively," Trudy injected.

Portia glared at her, then continued. "Is that your usual habit, or was that the bitter?"

Bradley frowned, not sure where this was going. "What you saw tonight was pretty much me, yes. I'm not exactly shy."

"Yes, well then, if the object of your affections has actually met you, then chances are they accept and love you for your – exuberance, shall we say. No point in hiding it now, is there?"

Bradley stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "No, I suppose not." He squeezed both of their hands before rising from the booth. "Thank you again."

"Not at all, love, not at all. Glad we could help," Portia said.

"And Bradley?" Trudy called, as he was turning to go. "After you've done showing Colin your – exuberance, be sure to tell him we're right proud of him and wish him well."

Bradley flushed to the tips of his ears, then smiled and nodded before making his escape.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The next morning, Bradley was up with the birds and went for a five-mile run in the early morning light. He flew over the Queen's Bridge, strides eating up the distance as the river shone bright gold on either side of him. The industrial district was on the other side of the river, and he passed dirty white vans disgorging packs of hard-hatted workmen and vacant lots full of weeds freshly murdered by the first autumn frost.

After a shower and a hearty breakfast, he walked to the Victoria Square shopping centre, which he'd seen in his travels last night. He emerged a couple of hours later with an armload of gifts for everyone in Colin's family – God bless House of Fraser's gift wrapping services – and three bottles of wine. Staggering back to the hotel with his parcels, he loaded up the Fiesta, studied the map one more time, and got behind the wheel.

Bradley had met Colin's parents once before, when they'd visited the set in Wales during the first series. He knew Neil somewhat better, having gone drinking with him a couple of times, but there was another sister and brother he'd heard very little about. Their gifts had been more generic as a consequence, though Bradley had carefully avoided anything possibly involving animal testing, the destruction of the Amazon rainforest or global warming, just in case Mrs. Morgan had raised a whole flock of vegetarian eco-warriors instead of just the one.

He'd given up trying to plan everything, or even sorting out what to say; that had been half his problem of late. He told himself he would do best to remember Portia's and Trudy's advice in the matter, and then closed his brain to doubt until further notice.

Unfortunately, the plan not to have a plan lasted until he was parked outside of Colin's house an hour and a half later, and then the panic overtook him again, turning his hands into immobile claws as they clenched the wheel in a death grip.

"Stop it," Bradley told his brain firmly, and his fingers miraculously unclenched, though they were still slick with sweat. "You can do this." He let his forehead touch the wheel. "No, I can't. Fuck." He whacked it gently. "Fuck." Another whack. "Fuck."

Suddenly a sharp rap sounded on the glass right beside his head, causing Bradley to leap so high his head nearly collided with the roof. When he looked out, he saw Colin's mum peering in at him.

Brilliant.

"Bradley?" Her frown broke into a wide grin as soon as she recognised him. "What a lovely surprise!"

Bradley pasted on a smile and rolled down the window. "Hello, Mrs. Morgan," he said. "I'm sorry to barge in on you without notice."

"Nonsense! It's marvelous to see you, dear. Here, get out of that car and come inside. You know, Colin didn't tell us you were coming, and he's usually terrible at keeping secrets!"

"Well, I –"

"You've never met our Doreen, have you? And Frank's wife, Bridget, or Granny Morgan?" Bradley shook his head, already dumbstruck. "Well, come on with you, then. The men are out finding a Christmas tree – if one can be found this early in the season, of course – and we've the whole afternoon free of them to cook the goose and prepare the supper. You can be our helper, won't that be wonderful! We'll soon put you to work, now come along, there's a good lad."

Giving up in the face of the force of nature that was Colin's mother, Bradley opened the car door and got out. "I, erm, I have a few things..." he began, moving round to the boot to gather the presents.

"Lovely, you've brought your overnight bag," Mrs. Morgan said. "I would have asked you to stay even if Colin hadn't."

"Oh, no, no," Bradley said, opening the boot, "I just brought a few small tokens for you and the family. I heard you were having an early Christmas celebration for Neil and I didn't want to come empty-handed."

"For heaven's sake, you didn't have to do that. You're enough of a gift on your own." She frowned as he gathered up his parcels. "Why, you don't have a bag. I suppose Colin will have to lend you something of his. You're not exactly the same size, but he's always wearing those baggy clothes. I'm sure something will fit you."

"No, thank you, but I can't stay," Bradley protested. "I have a hotel back in –"

"A hotel!" Mrs. Morgan scoffed. "There's no need of a hotel when you can stay with us. I suppose Colin told you the house is stuffed to the rafters, so you'll have to bunk with him. But I'm sure you'll manage, won't you?"

Bradley gulped. "Yes, I," he croaked, "on second thought, I'd love nothing better than to stay. Thank you."

Colin's mother smiled and patted his arm as she led the way up the front steps. "There, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Bradley would have answered her, but he was too busy trying not to swallow his own tongue. He was sure his grin was a little frightening in its intensity, but at this point no other expression seemed to suffice.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Bradley was up to his elbows in potato peels when he heard the commotion that heralded the return of the Morgan menfolk. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough time to remove the purple apron from around his neck before Colin came bounding into the kitchen, his cheeks pink with the cold and his eyes bright with laughter.

"Mum, would you believe Neil's already managed to break something trying to get the bloody tr –" He stopped dead at the sight of Bradley.

Colin's mother turned away from her own work washing vegetables in the sink. "Oh, for goodness' sake, I swear that poor lad's cursed. What did he break now?"

Colin gaped for a moment or two before responding. Gaze still fixed on Bradley, he said, "That vase Aunt Margaret gave you."

"Oh, well, that's not such a terrible loss; I wasn't exactly fond of it." Sighing, she dried her hands on a tea towel, then walked over to Colin and gave him a kiss.

"Well, don't just stand there like a great lump," she said. "Say hello to your friend."

"Hello," Colin said, still clearly stunned. Desperately, Bradley searched his face for signs of a reaction, but there were none other than utter shock.

"I'm so glad you asked Bradley to spend Christmas with us," his mother continued. "I've been wanting to get to know him better, and he's such a lovely lad, polite as can be and so helpful."

Bradley shot Colin what he hoped was an apologetic look, but Colin wasn't looking at him; he was too busy flushing bright red, which could either be embarrassment or anger, and fuck, Bradley had gone and bollixed it up again.

"Well, I suppose I'd better get back out there before Neil manages to break the rest of the house," Colin mumbled, leaving without another glance at Bradley.

Colin's mother shook her head. "The Morgan men are all like that," she said, patting Bradley's arm consolingly, "though Colin's far and away the shyest of the lot. How he ever became an actor I'll never know. How did you decide to become an actor, by the way?"

Bradley wiped his hands on his apron and sighed. "It seemed like a sound career choice. You see, I've always had a talent for making a fool of myself."

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The remainder of the afternoon was torture. Just as Mrs. Morgan had explained, the house was stuffed to the rafters with the immediate family, as well as friends and more distant relatives who kept popping in and out through the day to wish Neil well, since he was headed back to Boston in the morning. Neil himself kept shooting Bradley odd looks, as though he were a particularly stubborn puzzle piece that wouldn't fit. Colin wasn't exactly avoiding him, but neither did he make any efforts to engage him in conversation when there weren't at least three other people involved in the discussion. Between the tree trimming, the baking of Christmas cookies and some last-minute wrapping of presents the men had bought, there was no chance to go off alone and talk even if Colin had been so inclined. And for the kicker, Mr. Morgan kept plying Bradley with whiskey, which made him thick-headed no matter how slowly he drank it.

And then suddenly, dinner was ready, and there was a flurry of activity: dishes filled, potatoes mashed (Mrs. Morgan declared this to be Bradley's job) and table set. Bradley was placed directly across from Neil and between Frank and Colin's grandmother, who was seventy-eight and had a bad hip, among other afflictions. She'd told him the story of her various ailments over the course of preparing dinner, and Bradley thanked providence and Colin's mum's seating plan that Colin was down the other end of the table, because her dinnertime conversational gambit was considerably more horrifying.

"This is marvelous, truly marvelous," she said, leaning in close and smiling indulgently at Bradley. "Now we have Frank's Bridget, and Doreen's fellow, and you, and if we could just find a girl for Neil all the children would be paired off."

Bradley narrowly avoided choking on the bite of goose he was currently masticating and cast a glance down the table at Colin, who thankfully appeared to be deep in conversation with his sister. As he turned back, he caught Neil eyeing him again – or perhaps it was a glare, he wasn't sure. He decided the best defence in this case was to be completely English and pretend nothing had happened.

"I was wondering about the spices you put in the parsnips, Mrs. Morgan," he said to Colin's grandmother, smiling. "They're truly delicious."

"Ah, well, that's my secret," she said, beaming at him. "Though after Colin makes an honest man of you, I'll be pleased to share it with you."

"Will you excuse me?" Bradley said weakly, nearly toppling his chair in his haste to stand.

He made it up the stairs to the bathroom, where he locked himself in and splashed cold water on his face. He was just beginning to formulate a plan where he squeezed through the tiny window and escaped – hell, it was only a dozen feet or so to the ground – when he was startled by a sharp knock.

"I'll only be a minute!" he called out, irritation creeping into his tone.

"Bradley, open the bloody door." Bugger, it was Colin. Bradley snatched the towel and hastily swiped it over his face, then yanked open the door. Colin immediately barged in and shut it behind them, crowding Bradley back against the sink. His expression, Bradley thought, was similar to Merlin's when he was about to do something desperate, but as he stared at Bradley it changed to a confused frown.

"Why is your hair wet?" Colin demanded.

"Oh, no reason in particular," Bradley returned airily. "I was just trying to drown myself in the toilet."

Colin's eyebrows shot up.

"Look, I'm –" Bradley began, then closed his mouth when he realised he had no idea of how to finish that sentence. There were certain disadvantages to not planning everything.

Colin ran a hand through his hair. "You're what? Mad? Insane? Completely off your chump?"

"Are those my choices?" Bradley asked. "Because I think they're all synonyms, and so that isn't much of a – "

"Bradley, for Christ's sake," Colin snapped, more exasperated than angry. He took a step closer, and Bradley's eyes fluttered shut as their chests brushed. "Why did you come here?"

"I really had to pee?"

"To _Northern Ireland_," Colin gritted. "To my _bloody house_."

"I, erm," Bradley said, once again at a loss, though this time it wasn't so much of a problem since Colin cut him off with a kiss. It was surprisingly aggressive, almost bruising in its intensity, and it took Bradley's addled brain a moment to realise Colin was kissing him like someone who expected to be rejected at any moment – like someone who was afraid this would be his only chance.

_Christ, Col_, Bradley thought, hands coming up to bracket his skinny hips, cradling the juts of bone with careful pressure. He didn't push back, merely angled his head to allow their mouths to fit together more snugly, and Colin groaned and slid his arms round Bradley's ribs, fingers fluttering against his spine like birds unsure of their perch.

Bradley sighed into Colin's mouth, then pulled back a fraction of an inch, "This," he whispered, lips brushing against Colin's, "I came for this, for you –" and Colin seized Bradley's face in his hands and kissed him even harder, stealing his breath.

"Sorry, sorry," Colin murmured, breaking off and leaning their foreheads together, his thumb apologizing to Bradley's lower lip with a soothing touch, "I just – I never thought I'd – and then you were here and I didn't know what the fuck to think –"

"I'm the one who's sorry," Bradley murmured, "I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, you are a bit," Colin said, kissing him gently to soften the blow, "but I forgive you." Another kiss, Colin's arms sliding up his chest to his shoulders. "You're _here_, I can't believe –"

"Shhh," Bradley said, mouthing his jaw, surprised at the softness of Colin's beard. "We have about thirty seconds before your whole family troops up here to find out what's become of us."

"I have a feeling they know exactly what's going on," Colin said against Bradley's neck. "My mum rang me after she saw the Wales special to ask if you and I were shagging."

Bradley drew back, appalled. "She didn't!"

"Well, not exactly in those words, but yeah," Colin said ruefully. "I told her nothing was going on, but she, erm, kind of figured out I wished it were different."

"So why does Neil keep looking at me as though I've murdered his puppy?"

Colin made a face. "Erm. Well, he thought you were messing me about."

"Lovely," Bradley sighed.

Colin chuckled. "He's always been a little overprotective of me. It's a big brother thing." He shrugged. "He'll come round, I expect. My mum and sisters all adore you, if that's any consolation."

"Don't forget your gran," Bradley said proudly. "She's going to give me her parsnip recipe once we're married."

"Oh my God," Colin said, resting his head against Bradley's shoulder and laughing breathlessly. "This is completely mad, isn't it?"

"I don't mind," Bradley murmured, turning his face into Colin's hair and grinning, the joy finally edging out the anxiety of the past two days and making him giddy.

"D'you suppose we could hide up here until everyone else has gone to bed?" Colin asked.

Bradley's eyes went wide as he remembered. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, suddenly tense all over again. "_Bed_."

Colin raised his head and looked a question at Bradley, who winced. This was going to be difficult to explain.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Three hours later, Bradley was lying in Colin's bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, waiting for Colin to arrive. He felt like a bride on his wedding night, only it was one of those weddings from the tragic days before they invented air travel, where instead of jetting off to Rome or the south of France to fuck, the newlyweds were forced to fuck in their parents' house with the whole family listening in.

Bradley was wearing one of Colin's t-shirts and a pair of his plaid flannel pajama bottoms. Even as baggy as he wore them and with an elasticized waist, they were still a size too small for Bradley and bunched up in unfortunate places, but he wasn't about to take them off. Not being fully clothed was just an invitation to sin and debauchery, which would inevitably lead to eternal mortification when Colin's grandmother heard them doing filthy things to one another through the walls. Going back down to dinner after spending ten minutes together in the bathroom, after realising that Colin's mum knew exactly what she was doing when she insisted Bradley stay the night, had been embarrassing enough, thank you. For a while, Bradley thought his cheeks might well be bright pink forever.

Finally, the door creaked open and Colin entered. He shut it again as quietly as possible and slumped back against it. "Oh, shit. My father just waggled his eyebrows at me and _punched me on the arm_." He shuddered expressively.

"Was it a 'well done you for landing such a fine catch' sort of punch, or a 'give it to him until he screams for mercy' sort of punch?"

Colin buried his face in his hands. "I hate you. I'm sleeping on the floor."

"Don't be silly. We can do this." Colin dropped his hands and stared at him. "I mean, we can do nothing. Nothing at all. Except sleep."

Colin eyed him skeptically. "You think so?"

"Surrounded by ten thousand members of the Morgan clan? I can honestly say my dick has never been more limp."

Colin pursed his lips. "I'm flattered."

Bradley sighed. "That's not what I – oh, for Christ's sake, can we just go to sleep so that we can get on with putting this night behind us?"

Colin's shoulders sagged briefly before he pushed off from the door. "Sure," he muttered.

"What's the matter now?" Bradley demanded as Colin lifted the covers and crawled into the bed beside him. Thankfully, it was wide enough for both of them, but not by much; as Colin lay down, it was clear that there was no more than a couple of inches of space between their bodies, even with Bradley plastered against the wall.

Lying flat on his back, Colin huffed out a breath. "It's only that – this is not how I pictured our first night." Bradley watched as the tips of his ears turned pink. "Not that I ever pictured it."

Bradley grinned. "You fantasised about me, didn't you?"

"Shut up," Colin said tightly.

"Was I good?" Bradley asked. "What am I saying, of course I was good. I was brilliant."

Colin bit his lip. "S'not funny," he muttered, but the laugh fought its way free.

Chuckling, Bradley propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Colin, who mock-glared up at him, even as his shoulders continued to shake.

"You're an arsehole," Colin said.

"Why you love me," Bradley shot back lightly.

Colin stared up at him, laughter dying abruptly, and suddenly Bradley was finding it difficult to breathe.

"Maybe," Colin said softly.

Bradley gulped in whatever air was left in the room. "Colin, God," he husked, unable to resist as his hand rose to Colin's face of its own volition. He leaned down and brought their mouths together, and Colin surged up into the kiss, meeting him eagerly.

"Oh, wait, no, no, no," Bradley managed, with a heroic display of will power. Unfortunately, he'd only summoned it after they were panting and flushed and Bradley had his hand up under Colin's t-shirt and Colin had his hand on Bradley's arse. "We, shit, no, this is – a bad idea."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, right," Colin gasped, head flopping back onto the pillow. His mouth was kiss-bruised and devastatingly lovely, and Bradley wanted to suck on his lower lip until Colin begged him to stop.

Colin glared up at him. "Quit poking me with that thing, then."

Bradley shrank back against the edge of the bed. "Sorry, sorry," he managed.

"So much for your limp dick," Colin grunted, flinging an arm over his eyes.

Bradley snorted. Colin peeked at him from under his arm, then started giggling, which of course set Bradley off.

"It's a breakthrough for medical science," Bradley whispered, leaning his forehead against Colin's forearm. "One man arrayed against ten thousand, emerging victorious in the battle against erectile dysfunction."

"Stop it," Colin said, shoulders shaking.

"I'm serious. If only we could bottle you, we'd be richer than the bloke who invented Viagra."

"I'm turning out the light, you nutter," Colin said, shoving him off and rolling to his side. A click and they were plunged into darkness. Bradley lay on his side as well, careful to keep a few inches of space between them.

"What time is your brother's flight in the morning?" he asked.

"Ten-thirty," Colin said. "Why?"

"Why don't I drive him to the airport? It might earn me points. Or at least prevent him from pushing my face in the next time he sees me."

Colin chuckled. "Good idea."

Bradley hesitated, then reached out and slid a gentle hand up Colin's spine until his fingers were brushing the hair at his nape. "You could come with me. I, erm, I booked a hotel in Belfast through Monday morning."

Colin went still. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's – absolutely ridiculous, really. I have this suite that's decorated like Byron's boudoir. If Byron had a predilection for billiards and faux fur, that is." He took a deep breath, let it out. "It's got a massive bed and a jacuzzi built for two. I might have spent some time last night thinking about – the possibilities."

"God, Bradley," Colin breathed. Under his fingers, Bradley could feel him shiver.

"I know it's not the trip we talked about, but I thought we could do that in the new year," Bradley blurted. "Wherever you like. In the meantime, I – well, I thought this might be a start."

There was a long pause, then: "C'mere," Colin whispered. Bradley felt Colin's hand reach back and close around his own.

"Col –"

Colin made a frustrated sound, then tugged Bradley's arm with surprising strength. "C'mere," he repeated, the word almost a growl. "We can do this quietly, I don't fucking care, just –"

"Christ," Bradley gusted, but he obeyed, sliding closer to Colin until they were pressed back to chest. His cock, still half-hard, pressed against Colin's arse, and decided it liked being there very much. There was only one small problem.

"Less clothes would be a good idea, don't you think?" Bradley whispered against Colin's ear, nuzzling his lobe.

"Yeah, yeah, brilliant idea," Colin agreed, pulling away. Bradley heard the rustling of clothes and followed suit, trying to avoid inadvertently whacking Colin with an elbow or a knee in the dark. He flung his borrowed shirt on the floor, then shimmied out of the pajamas and boxers and shoved them to the side. Within a few moments, Colin joined him, hands lighting on his shoulder and arm and chest to locate him.

"There you are," Colin murmured, lying back down facing him. Bradley could hear the sweet smile in his voice, could picture it easily. He realised with a shock that he'd probably memorised every one of Colin's smiles: the quiet ones, the sardonic ones, the smirks and half-smiles and all-out grins. Carefully, he reached out and found Colin's mouth with his fingers, traced his lips.

Colin's breath gusted against his fingertips. "Slowly," he hissed, taking Bradley's hand in his own and licking the palm, then guiding it down to wrap around his cock.

Bradley gave Colin's dick an experimental stroke, and Colin gasped. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Colin whispered. "That's –" Bradley stroked him again "– perfect."

"Can I kiss you?" Bradley asked, lifting his head.

By way of answer, Colin's hand slid up Bradley's shoulder to his cheek, and a moment later Bradley felt soft lips brush against his own. As their mouths clung and explored, growing bolder, Bradley's rhythm faltered. When Colin arched up into his hand to remind him, Bradley apologised with a swipe of his thumb over the head of Colin's cock. Colin whimpered softly and clutched at his shoulder, his hips rolling, making the bed creak.

They both froze at the same moment. Bradley nosed at Colin's cheek. "Better let me," he murmured. "Just lie back and think of England, alright?"

Colin nodded, a little frantically. Bradley slid his free arm under Colin and around his back, using it to pull him closer, until they were pressed together from shoulders to hips. As he stroked, Bradley could feel the head of Colin's cock getting wetter, and on the next pull, he brushed it gently back and forth against the hair on his belly. Colin hissed and buried his head in Bradley's shoulder.

"Can you come from this?" Bradley asked, kissing Colin's temple. His own cock was nestled firmly against Colin's thigh, but it didn't mind the lack of attention for now; if Colin touched him, he'd probably go off in an embarrassing amount of time.

"God, yeah," Colin sighed, voice muffled against Bradley's skin, "been thinking about this forever –"

"Fuck, Col, I –" Colin raised his head and cut him off with a kiss, tongue delving deeply.

"Never mind," Colin whispered, "it doesn't matter – you're here, and I'm, Bradley, I'm –"

"Yeah, c'mon," Bradley murmured, tightening the circle of his fingers just that extra bit, "c'mon, Colin," and Colin sucked in a sharp breath and stiffened, groaning quietly into Bradley's mouth as he came. Bradley's arm tightened on Colin's back; he felt the shudders run through Colin's body and thought _I did that_ with a fierce, possessive pride that astonished him.

"Oh, God," Colin moaned, "I came buckets."

Bradley had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. "Told you I was brilliant."

Colin snorted. He wriggled from his grasp and fumbled around on the floor, then came back with some cloth – probably one of his t-shirts – and wiped Bradley's hand and his own dick.

"Well, Mister Brilliant," Colin murmured, kissing him soundly, "now we'll be getting up at the crack of fucking dawn to wash the sheets."

"Then I suppose there's no harm in getting them a little messier," Bradley growled, taking Colin's hand and sliding it down his chest.

"None at all," Colin agreed, and this time Bradley could hear his wicked grin.

    
    
    
    
 

_Epilogue_

    
    
 

On Sunday night, Colin dragged Bradley out of the hotel room, insisting they finally do something that didn't involve being horizontal.

"But there was the shower," Bradley protested. "And the wall beside the fireplace."

"Alright, then, that doesn't involve us being _covered in spunk_," Colin said. "Will you _come on_."

And it was nice, Bradley admitted, to eat a meal that wasn't from room service, and to walk the streets of the city with someone who knew it, feeling his shoulder bumping against your own occasionally, glancing over at him to catch him smiling at you fondly. Colin had smiled at him a lot in the last two days, and it made Bradley realise how little he'd smiled at him in the past month, or at least how little he'd seen the pleased smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was, Bradley now knew, the one Colin reserved only for him, the one that said _I find you can be a bit of an arsehole sometimes but I love you anyway_.

They hadn't openly discussed their feelings, and Bradley wasn't sure that they would. It wasn't so much because they were blokes, he thought, as because it suddenly seemed so bloody obvious there was no need to examine it. And after waking Saturday morning with Colin curled in his arms like he was made to fit there, Bradley knew the answer to the question that had been plaguing him since Cardiff: Colin still needed him, and hopefully always would.

Good thing, then, that Bradley needed him just as much, if not more.

"So, are we wandering aimlessly – which I'm not opposed to, by the way – or do you have a destination in mind?" Bradley asked once they'd walked a few blocks from the restaurant. He had noticed they were going in the opposite direction to the hotel, and his curiosity was finally getting the better of him.

Colin cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you might like to go to the theatre."

"The theatre," Bradley echoed.

"We should do our bit to support the arts."

Bradley grinned. "Did you get your ticket for free?"

Colin made a face. "No. M'not exactly a starving student any longer."

"Well, it's lovely to know you're not a drain on government coffers."

"Prat," Colin said, leading Bradley around a corner. "Anyway, I thought you might like it."

"And why is that?"

Colin bumped him in the arm and pointed across the street, mouth twitching to keep from smiling.

Bradley raised his head and saw a massive building before them, late Victorian in style, with a large colourful banner stretched above its entrance.

"The Grand Opera House presents 'Aladdin,'" Bradley read aloud, completely gobsmacked.

"It's their Christmas panto," Colin said, grinning. "I figure you should probably see it every couple of decades or so."

"I never told you about that," Bradley said, turning to Colin. "Which means you must have –"

"Watched your interview? Yeah." Colin scratched at the back of his neck. "Might have watched it a few times, actually."

Bradley frowned. "You see me all the time."

Colin's mouth twisted. "Yeah, but I only get to see you be charming and self-effacing in interviews."

"Oh, lovely, cheers," Bradley said, affecting a put-upon air. Colin laughed, then reached up to grab the lapels of his pea jacket and tug him closer.

"Sorry," he murmured, not sounding sorry at all.

"Seems I managed to charm your family well enough," Bradley pretended to gripe.

"Well, that's different," Colin allowed, voice turning low and intimate. "I'm thinking the Morgans must have a genetic predisposition to fall arse over teakettle for you."

"I only want one Morgan," Bradley murmured, leaning in close.

Colin stared straight into his eyes, as fearless as Merlin. "You've got him."

Bradley kissed him, lingering just enough to answer him. When he drew back, he saw the smile that told him Colin understood.

**Author's Note:**

> **Links:**
> 
> The Samson Room at Belfast's [Malmaison Hotel](http://www.malmaison-belfast.com/) actually exists, purple pool table and all.
> 
> Trudy Scrumptious and Lady Portia Diamante await you every Thursday night on the karaoke couch at the [Union Street Pub](http://www.unionstreetpub.com/). Thanks to for suggesting this fabulous spot.
> 
> And I shit you not: [Aladdin is this year's Christmas panto at Belfast's Grand Opera House.](http://www.goh.co.uk/WhatsOn_focus.asp?ShowId=336)
> 
>  
> 
> **Further A/N:** Apart from the fact that Bradley has a sister and Colin has a brother, I know absolutely nothing about their respective families. Though a lot of the public events described here actually happened, the rest is fiction.


End file.
